


Ne Me Quitte Pas

by sheep



Series: Domestic Circus [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheep/pseuds/sheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of scenes Phil's used to coming home to. This isn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ne Me Quitte Pas

**Author's Note:**

> Title and song discussed within is "Ne Me Quitte Pas" by Edith Piaf.

Phil Coulson was used to coming home to their apartment in various states of disarray. Sometimes his kitchen was destroyed from Clint making them an amazing dinner using every single pot and pan Phil owned. The mess was usually worth the meal but Phil's idea of cooking involved paying someone else to do it off-site.

Sometimes he'd come home with said takeout to find Clint collapsed on the couch watching terrible television, bits of his costume strewn about, feet on the table, chip crumbs all over the couch. After a mission and the mountain of paperwork the destruction of a city block led to, Phil usually came home to Clint asleep on their bed, half or fully clothed depending on how the mission went.

This though, was a first. Clint was lying on his back on the floor in front of the record player. The head phones were plugged in and he was softly singing something French and from what Phil could tell, sad. There was a half-full tumbler in Clint's outstretched hand, resting on the hardwood, and a still mostly filled bottle of vermouth on the coffee table.

Phil just stood there, unsure what to do for a long moment before he placed his briefcase down next to the couch and moved to sit in the closest chair to Clint. If he stretched his legs out, he could touch the younger man but he kept them reeled in for now and just stared at the archer, enjoying the sight. He wasn't sure what this meant but he had a feeling he'd soon find out.

After a minute or so, Clint cracked his eyes open and smiled softly even though his eyes remained sad. “Hey.” Clint said quietly, not getting up. Phil stretched out his legs, tucking one set of toes under Clint's body and letting the other poke Clint slightly in the ribs before moving them up to rest on top of Clint's torso, heel on the ground. With every breath, his foot would rise and then fall with Clint's ribcage.

“This is a first.” Phil said, looking into Clint's eyes, before gesturing toward the record player and the vermouth.

“I was feeling nostalgic.” Clint spun the tumbler around a perfect 360, ice clinking. Phil refused to imagine the potential scratch it could cause.

“That explains everything.” Phil deadpanned but didn't press for more. Instead he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. They sat in silence for a little bit before Clint, without getting up or even looking at it, hit two buttons on the record player and unplugged the headphones. Immediately, soft piano filled their apartment.

“That sounds like Edith Piaf,” Phil commented as her distinctive voice sang the first line. After a beat Phil teased, “I didn't know you knew of music invented before 1967.”

“I have depth.” Clint countered with a slightly wider smile that actually reached his eyes.

“I'm learning.” Phil sank a little further in his chair, leaning his head back while he closed his eyes. Clint's body warm against his feet. They both just sat and listened for a little while. The record was old and it crackled but the music was still beautiful. Eventually the song slowly faded out, the needle moving off leaving only white noise coming from the stereo. Clint's hand wavered over the play button before moving over the inch to turn it off instead. The loss of the white noise left a heavy silence in its wake.

After a few long moments, Clint cleared his throat.

“Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders may have been filled with a fair number of criminals and lowlifes but most of them were really amazing people. The Bearded Lady was my favourite. She would smoke all day long and drink Vermouth like it was water. She had the most beautiful voice though. She'd sing to me at night if I couldn't sleep. They were always sad and french.”

“Was this one of them?” Phil asked, pocketing that bit of information away. Clint didn't usually open up and Phil loved learning anything that wasn't in Agent Barton's file.

“This was her favourite.” Clint answered quietly, eyes closing for a few seconds before in a flash of movement he was standing, rubbing a hand over his face. “Man, I'm tired of being this morose. What do you say to a little dinner and Supernanny? There was a marathon on today I recorded for you.”

“You don't have to.” Phil said, reaching out and lightly grabbing Clint's free hand.

“I'll keep it in the Carnie theme when all we had was a hotplate to cook with. Grilled cheese and canned tomato soup.” Phil's stomach gave him away with a grumble. “I knew it,” Clint crowed smugly. “You shower and get into something more comfortable.” Clint ordered, winking and flicking the lapel of Phil's suit jacket with a finger.

From the washroom, Phil could hear the faint strains of the classic rock he was far more used to, and the tension that had been in his chest from the second he'd entered the apartment eased a bit.


End file.
